After pulling on an old Germs shirt with the sleeves ripped off, Stark shoves the mess on his bed aside enough to flop onto it, stretching out. His arm is itching like fury, but he does his best to ignore it. "What am I?" He gives Winchester a look that seems offended, lowering his voice in mockery. "Seriously? That's what you're going with? What?"

Shrugging away the (mostly fabricated) annoyance, Stark starts flipping channels on the seriously outdated television. "Order me a cheeseburger. Rare, with bacon and extra onions." Finding a program that appears mindless but not too obnoxious, he leaves it there, mostly for something to stare at. "You were in Hell; I got you out." Like most of his responses, this one is casual, like it happens every day. No way is he going into the angel involvement, not yet. "A Hellhound? The thing I saw you fighting looked more like the lovechild of a sidewinder and the Hulk, only with extra appendages. You don't remember that? Or the explosion before the credits rolled?"